I Hate Everything About You
by Priestess Adularia
Summary: Time passed between Raoul first hearing the Phantom and his leaving the Opera. Time enough to become obsessed with the mysterious angel. What does obsession lead to? Slash. Thanks everyone! Rereading, I can't believe how arrogantly I demanded reviews.
1. Show Yourself

Here I am, the great and rather idiotic, returned from a year-long hiatus due to publishing my own book. YAY ME! Of course, that book wasn't slash…  
Insert sigh here  
This is the Raoul from Joe SCUMacher (misspelled on purpose, in case you didn't notice) because I hate all the other Raouls, but it has a bit of the stubborn, arrogant, temperamental Leroux Raoul.  
It's all mostly Joe Scumbag, but there are a few changes (I mean, due to the pairings there are a lot of changes, but mostly it follows a pattern. Like, there's no Carlotta suddenly giving money to the poor) And I'm giving Erik the talent of the book Erik, because Gerard is good mostly (at least he's trying) but not good enough. And after 'Point of no Return' his voice is absolute crap the whole way through, minus "IT'S OVER NOW, THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT!"  
There are two significant points in which it follows the book instead of the movie. The first is that there are several months between "Phantom of the Opera/Music of the Night" and "All I Ask of You" (and so on and so forth)  
The second is that Erik does not immediately take Christine into the mirror, and after she leaves Raoul comes back to the room…

«§Ж§»

The moment he saw him, he hated him.

Not only because he loved _his_ Christine. He hated everything about him. His looks, of course. It would be wrong to call him handsome. Pretty, beautiful, but not handsome. That perfect hair, gleaming and curled. Those pink, glowing lips. (I would like to point out that I can say all of this while hating Raoul) Perfect, almost feminine skin. Beautiful eyes. Expensive clothes which he could only assume were at the height of style.

It was more than his looks. It was that odd thing he did with his finely plucked brows. The way he casually dismissed the legend of the "Opera Ghost" as nonsense, his careless shrugging off of Christine's words referring her "Angel of Music."

Words. Christine spoke to him. She and her Angel had never spoken. They sang. They sang and sang, but neither of them spoke.

And his voice. He hated the boy's voice most of all, soft and rich and warm. He didn't sing. And the few notes he sang, he sang with Christine, so it was impossible to focus on them—and then he hugged her! He put his arms around the woman the Opera Ghost was not even allowed to speak to.

The Phantom of the Opera hated that he didn't sing.

More than anything else, he hated that he wanted to hear him sing.

«§Ж§»

Raoul couldn't help but frown, though he would rather scowl outright. "It couldn't possibly take that long to get dressed," he told himself, as he walked upstairs. He tried to reassure himself. She was a women, women took a long time to dress. Maybe her outfit took a long time to take off. Maybe…

He smiled. Maybe she was trying to dress as well as possible, for his sake.

As he neared Christine's room, the candles went out. It was as if God had decided to blow out the candle of the Opera Populaire.

Now the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He had an unbearable urge to run. And he did, but to Christine's door, while his instincts urged him in the opposite direction. He reached for the doorknob and hesitated. And that was when he heard the voice: loud and harsh, but beautiful, captivating, even as it hissed words of rage.

_"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion  
Basking in your glory  
Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor  
Sharing in my triumph" _

The glory of that snarl scared Raoul, who was so unfamiliar with fear that he didn't recognize it.

He did recognize being miffed. Who was this majestic, malevolent voice, who dared to speak to Christine? And who did he think he was, insulting him? Unless Christine had more suitors, which Raoul couldn't imagine.

And then Christine began to sing, and he was again amazed by her voice. He had loved it when she sang as a child. Her father told her she was charming, that her voice was sweet and pure. And she was, but a pure lousy voice was still lousy. Not that Raoul had ever told her…

_"Angel, I hear you  
Speak, I listen  
Stay by my side, guide me" _

Raoul was shocked. This vengeful voice was Christine's angel?

And now he shook the doorknob. "Who's in there?" His voice sounded hoarse and awful to his ears, compared to the seraphic Christine and the awe-inspiring "Angel."

"Christine? Christine!"

She was still singing, blithe and supplicant.

_"Angel, my soul was weak  
Forgive me  
Enter at last, master" _

Raoul was speechless with rage. Master? She called him 'Master?'

_What kind of creature is he, and what is his hold over her?_

_"I sang for you, I sing only for you _

_Angel of music, guide and guardian  
I gave you my soul tonight." _

And now the voice sang, placated at last. He ought to be, thought a miffed Raoul, considering how she showered the distrustful voice with innocent praise.

_"Flattering child, I thank you  
No star sparkles so bright  
No emperor received a gift so great  
The angels wept tonight" _

The door opened, and Christine exited, dressed in what would not have been appropriate if she merely wanted to go to dinner. Had she even considered his offer? Perhaps he should not have left so soon. Poor, naïve Christine, who did not know the difference between some liar and her precious angel. (I am, I repeat, an Erik fan. I'm just trying to write from Raoul's point of view, and I can't imagine his thoughts towards Erik would be very charitable)

Growling, Raoul entered her room. It was dark, candles there but blown out. Otherwise, it looked exactly the same.

"Show yourself." His voice was a raw, hateful whisper.

He stalked over to her closet and opened it. Riffling through her clothes, he were shocked. Most were the chaste gowns he would imagine her in, but others…

He fingered a ruffled dress, the rosettes and pale pink hue mocking the obscene cut. There was a black dress with nothing but a V of lace above the bodice.

Who saw her in such things? His fingers clenched over the fabric as he remembered the lacy confection she had wore when she exited the room.

"Show yourself, coward!"

He walked over to the huge mirror and glared at his own reflection. He imagined Christine putting on revealing gown after revealing gown, hoping to please this strange man, Christine who he so loved.

His voice rose. "Show yourself, false angel, dark seducer!"

No face showed itself, though for a moment something glinted white in the mirror.

Raoul whirled around. Nothing. Now he was screaming: "Trickster! Liar! Show yourself and I shall see your face, I shall see who my rival is! Show yourself, wretch who deceives my Christine."

A voice rumbled around him, roaring, surrounding him in terror and awe.

_"She is not yours  
Nor shall she ever be  
Stay away from Christine"_

And then the voice was gone. Raoul snarled, furious, and stormed out.

«§Ж§»

Yeah, that was the first chapter. It gets better, I promise.

I'll update for three reviews.


	2. The Ultimatum

Raoul sat in his room, his thoughts a mess. His mind went from Christine and the way presses were having a field day on her (Why had so great a treasure been kept from them all that time? Why had Andre and Firmin applied to Daae, when Carlotta was gone? Did they know of her hidden genius? And, if they knew of it, why had they kept it hidden? And why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to have a professor of singing at that moment. She had often said she meant to practice alone for the future. The whole thing was a mystery), to the voice and who it could possibly had been, to his casual dismissal of the 'angel of music' as one of her flights of fancy, to Christine's mellifluous voice (the whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering, clapping, while Christine stood there and smiled like an angel), to that horrible roar telling him to stay away from Christine, to those skimpy clothes in her closet, to his foolish believe that when she claimed to have been visited by the angel of music he believed she meant that as she sang she felt as if an angel had graced her, to that snarling false angel critiquing his fashion and his adoration for Christine, to that tiny pimple-like bump on Christine's cheek that made her look as if he was crying all the time, to the glimmer of white in the mirror, to Christine's beautiful eyes.

His thoughts veered wildly between Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine and the angel and the voice and Christine—STOP!

"Stop!" he shrieked, not even meaning to speak aloud. His hands went to his forehead.

Christine had not been pretty as a child.

She had been an awkward thing, full of fancy. But Raoul had been obsessed with her, even when they teased one another. She called him a pansy, he called her a klutz. He stuck out his tongue, she threw dirt in his face. One day she said that there was no angel of music. She burst into tears, and he had to kiss her to silence her.

His first kiss.

And again he thought of the angel of music. But not the mysterious voice. He thought of Christine's father, a Swedish violinist who loved to tell stories. The angel of music was in every story he told.

_"Every great musician," _he told them, with utmost seriousness, as Christine watched his face with rapture, a friendly face framed in black curls. _"Every great artist received a visit from the Angel at least once in his life. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle, as happened to Lotte," _here he cast a fond smile at his daughter. Raoul grinned at her, but she didn't look at him. Her head was in the clouds, as usual. In the clouds with her mysterious angel.

_"And that is how there are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than men at fifty, which, you must admit, is very wonderful. Sometimes, the Angel comes much later, because the children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practice their scales. And, sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children have a bad heart or a bad conscience." _

_"Do I have a bad heart, Daddy?" _little Christine had wanted to know. Raoul stared at her eyes—even now, they were so guileless, like a child's—and wondered how she could even think her heart was anything but perfect, no matter how gawky she was.

_"No," _Daddy Daae had replied._ "Your heart is as clear and pure as a crystal." _

_"Then why haven't I seen the angel of music?"_ She was pouting now. So charming, unbearably so. Raoul had always wanted his lips as pretty as hers. His brother constantly tormented him about the flavored, deep pink gloss he put on.

_"No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives. Persons who are visited by the Angel quiver with a thrill unknown to the rest of mankind. And they can not touch an instrument, or open their mouths to sing, without producing sounds that put all other human sounds to shame. Then people who do not know that the Angel has visited those persons say that they have genius." _

Little Christine had asked her father if she had ever heard the angel of music. He shook his head sadly._ "Only in my dreams, little Lotte." _Then his eyes lit up. _"But you will hear him one day, child! When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you!" _

Raoul could never completely focus on those stories. But he memorized Daddy Daae's stories, every one of them, because those stories made her eyes glow. He loved to bask in that glow, young though he was. He had been so young he still remembered those stories. They were imprinted in his mind, like all the beautiful things of his youth. He remembered telling Christine how much he wished the angel would visit him.

She clapped her hands, grinning happily. Her face had been so young. It was still so young. But it was perfect now, where it had been unformed.

_"When the angel comes, we can listen to him together. You can sing to the angel with me, Raoul." _

He had taken her promise to heart. Every day he practiced singing, in the hopes that they would sing together some day. Even when he grew too old to believe in the angel of music, he still wanted to sing with her.

He had not forgotten. He would never forget.

So why had she?

«§Ж§»

He had watched him, every day since he first came. In that time, his hatred grew until it was something so vast it could drown him, if he were not already drowning in love.

He knew the boy loved his Christine, though she herself either did not believe it or did not want to admit it. Day after day she lit a candle and sang to him, pleading, groveling, making a far bigger deal of it than she should have.

Occasionally he would respond. He grew angrier and angrier, but he did not let himself insult her. There was nothing about her to insult. He insulted the boy instead. It was easy. He hated everything about that charming youth.

He criticized his hair, his voice, his clothes, his girlish lips. He asked, scathingly, if he was even a man. Had his parents simply made an error in naming him?

She proved her guilt when told her precious angel that the boy meant nothing, that he was just a friend from her childhood, nothing more, nothing less. Why would she say this? he replied. In all his mockery of the Vicomte, he had not since the first day accused him of being in love with his angel. If he was nothing more than a friend, as she said, why would she avoid him? She would speak to him as she would any other friend, light airy conversations about memories and the stories of Little Lotte. She would not be on her knees, praying for forgiveness, unless she believed there was something to be forgiven.

She began to cry.

Nothing could infuriate or sadden him more than that. Why was she crying? It was the boy, he said, or rather sang. He called her his dear child and reminded her that he would never do anything to hurt her. He was as warm, as gentle, as he could. Anything was better than these tears.

Anything.

She cried harder and sang that the boy—'Raoul,' she called him. What a disgusting name. So common, so pretty, rather too masculine for the boy, with no feminine counterpart—was just a friend, and she would have spoken to him, not of love but of frocks and picnics and chocolates.

Fanciful things, he mused, but all could lead to romance. _Why not?_ he had asked her.

_Because you hate him!_ she wailed, and he softened. The boy a threat. Young girls were prone to flights of fancy, to marrying a man for his beauty. But not this one. She avoided her childhood friend for his sake! And so pretty a friend. He smiled, though she could not see him.

The smile fell. He would never have an enchanting smile, as the boy did. What if, as he feared, his voice was good?

_I must hear him sing._

For the rest of the night, he was as adoring as possible. By the time she had to leave, he had decided what to do. _If he is but a friend, your coolness will hurt him,_ he informed her. The flash of fear which crossed her eyes made him grind his teeth, but he remained tender.

_Speak to him, _he told her. _Tomorrow is the day you go to the graveyard, is it not?_

She went every week. He told Christine to go, and take her friend with her. He reminded her that she would always have her beside him, while the boy would not linger for long.

Christine wept, but in joy now. She showered him with praise of his kindness and mercy, but he told her mildly that he was neither kind nor merciful. He made her compose a note to him, telling the boy to meet her at his father's grave. He told Christine that he would make her father's violin play, if he was pleased with her. He told her he would play for both of them.

Christine was so thrilled he did not know whether to be pleased or irritated. Then she began to sing a song of praise to her Angel of Music, and he decided to be pleased.

The letter was sent, and Christine worshipped him for it. Tomorrow he would follow Christine to the graveyard. He needed to know more about this Vicomte de Chagny.

«§Ж§»

Would it be easier if I just used Erik's name? I wanted to wait until he actually told Raoul, but if it's too confusing I can just use it outright.  
This was going to be a lot longer, but so few people reviewed it depressed me. So I cut out three fourths of it. Here I bring the finished score.  
Three reviews and I update. And if you want them to meet face-to-face, it'll take five. And no romance until ten!


	3. The Invisible Musician

Priestess Adularia: Still not enough reviews for a published author whose been obscenely popular in about every fandom, but let me give special thanks to Ari-souls, Elanor Ainu, PhantomZebra, and quantuminferno (PS: great name.) XxxxX (Who does not deserve to have the name of the great Phantom in his name) is just a homophobe, and I think Shadow-Sun (again with the cool names) may be, but as of yet I can't be sure. Not a clear enough review.

«§Ж§»

Raoul twisted the note between his fingers as the carriage rode. It said, quite simply, _"I have not forgotten the little boy who went into the sea to rescue my scarf,"_ followed by instructions to meet him at her father's grave. She mentioned that he had been buried with his violin.

_The poor man loved music,_ he remembered. The nearer he came, the more fondly he remembered Little Lotte and Daddy Daaé and the mysterious Angel of Music.

He had read the note over and over again, and smelled the fragrance of roses. His hair tumbled freely about his shoulders, though he had tied it with a gossamer ribbon. Every step to the carriage, he felt something touch his neck. It could only have been free strands, but it felt more like someone breathing on the nape of his neck, or even a haunting brush of lips.

Eventually, he removed the ribbon in an attempt to tie it better. It had flown out the window of his carriage.

His heart was pounding. He knew he should be thrilled, but instead he was nervous. Raoul shook his head. _It's all in your mind,_ he told himself.

And now, a distant echo of the most enchanting whisper he had ever heard:

_The phantom of the opera is there  
Inside your mind_…

He didn't catch the words, only a chill which ran through his entire body. He shook his head again, hard. His hair flew in his eyes. He tried to push it out. It fell back in. His soft, manageable hair began to tangle. He almost screamed.

Leaning back against the carriage seat, Raoul felt his frustration grow. With it came the childish urge to cry.

And he still couldn't shake off the feel that there was someone following him…

«§Ж§»

Christine was waiting for him. She was wrapped in furs and a cloak, so that of her dress only the black velvet skirt could be seen. But it was enough for Raoul to recognize it.

She smiled when she saw him. An angel's smile.

"I knew you would be here," she said. "I knew you would be late, too."

Raoul froze. Was he late? She hadn't specified a time.

"It's all right, Raoul. I was at mass."

"How did you know I would be late?" he asked, having never been late before. "Who told you?"

"Why, my poor father."

His eyes widened. For a moment he couldn't speak. When he did, it was with regret. "Your father is dead, Christine."

"I know."

There was a silence; and then Raoul asked, "Did your father tell you that I can not live without you?"

Christine blushed. "Me, Monsieur? You must be mistaken!" And she laughed, nervous.

"Why are you laughing? I love you!"

The laughter stopped abruptly. Her eyes were huge now. "W…What?" she stammered.

"I love you, Christine. How can you not know that? Why else would you have sent me the letter?"

She looked ready to cry. "I thought…I guess I really don't know what I thought. I remembered our games as children…" She trailed off with a heartbroken expression. "Perhaps I was wrong to write to you. I just remembered the boy I used to know."

He heard himself laugh. The very sound shocked him, harsh and cold and not himself at all. "Of course! The boy! Because I'm still an insolent boy, right? An ignorant fool, basking in your glory."

Her expression was one of astonishment. Raoul was astonished as well. He had promised to be as tender as he knew how, to speak only of love.

"Why…Why would you say that?"

"That's what the voice said, isn't it?" His voice rose. "The _Angel of Music?"_ Raoul clenched his teeth. He could almost imagine the Angel of Music, some good-looking jackass tenor.

Christine seized Raoul's arm and with a strength no one would have suspected in so frail a creature. "You heard?" she gasped out. "You were listening?"

"Yes!" he cried.

_"Why?"_ Her face was deathly pale.

"Because I love you!"

And she released his arm. "So he was right." She shut her eyes, and breathed deeply for a few moments. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. When she opened them again, she spoke with icy formality. "Monsieur de Chagny, I'm afraid I will not be able to speak to you again."

"What?" He stared at her, and he saw no hostility in her eyes, only distressed affection. Why was it distressed?

That was when he heard the music.

It was a violin. He knew that song, he had heard it as a child. Christine's father had played it for them. But it had never been played with such divine perfection. If Christine's Angel had existed, he could not have played better.

Christine's eyes grew wide. A look of ecstasy filled them. Raoul didn't blame her. The music was beautiful. It engulfed him in a double dozen threads of bliss.

She fell to her knees before the giant tomb that formed her father's graves, made the sign of a cross, and kissed the roses that he could only assume she had placed there. "Thank you!" she wept. "Oh, thank you!"

And then she ran. Raoul called after her, but she didn't even look back.

New music, now that she was gone.

He began walking forward, looking for the music. The invisible musician was without hope, without salvation. If he listened much longer, he would be in tears.

But he could not stop listening.

He was at the foot of the tomb when the melody stopped, and Raoul broke out of his trance. He began looking around, wondering where the music could have come from. The only thing large enough to hide near was the Daaé vault. Christine's father must have spent all his money in making this tomb.

Raoul took a step forward, and a skull rolled to his feet. Then another…another. He heard a noise, as if the skulls were _chuckling_ at him.

With a shudder, he took another step. Invisible hands shoved him from behind. He found himself sprawled on the stair.

More laughter.

He tried to rise, and hands thrust him down. There was something—someone—on top of him, crushing him. Raoul screamed as loud as he could, and now his head was pushed into the ground.

"Let go!" he cried, but the noise was muffled. He heard dark laughter, and rough yet strangely gentle hands turned him over. A gloved hand covered his eyes, while the other pinned him to the ground by his chest. He fought uselessly.

"Help!" His voice rose, and he thrashed like an animal. The pressure on his chest grew until he felt certain the bone would break. His whole body ached from the steps. "Help me!"

A voice, a whisper, haunting and beautiful and terrible, a voice that made his skin crawl and his heart sing. "That's right, call for help. Call for your Christine."

And wasn't it odd, lying there on steps which dug into his back and made his skull ache, that this comment from a phantom attacker should draw that bitter laugh?

In a raw whisper, he replied, "she isn't my Christine."

He was found on the steps of the large tomb. He was stretched out, rather than sprawled in a position that would leave him unable to move for hours. But Raoul was half-frozen, in spite of the black cloak and black gloves he wore.

«§Ж§»

He watched the boy wake up, watched him squirm. The Vicomte was obviously in pain, in spite of his arranging the boy in a position that would leave him as comfortable as possible.

His friends were all around the Vicomte, asking after his health, but Christine wasn't there.

He smiled. If Christine had not run off, ecstatic over her angel's contentment, if the boy had not admitted to his loss, he was sure he would have killed the boy. As if was, he wasn't certain why he had taken such pains to ensure that he wouldn't be too cold or too bruised.

After the boy was taken to a warm bed, he had taken his cloak and gloves back. Wrapped in sheets and surrounded by admirers, the Vicomte looked glum and cold and sore.

The smile became a sneer. "I kept you warm," he hissed, without venom.

The Vicomte jumped. His head darted about, and those around him seemed bewildered.

The Phantom smirked. It didn't even occur to him that, for the first time, he had missed Christine's lesson.

«§Ж§»

Raoul's whole body was throbbing. He was sure he was black-and-blue, but he wasn't willing to move and find out. His hair was a mess of tangles, and he was surprised his fingers weren't frostbitten.

Music keened in his ears. Grief that made his flesh tighten.

The door swung open.

If the violin music was anguished, and Raoul was in disarray, Christine was a strange mixture.

She had applied eye shadow, and attempted to wipe it off before coming: heavy makeup was only for her angel to see, and only on special occasions—on the anniversary of her father's death, she wore lipstick the color of blood. The dark blue smeared across her temples and over the sides of her eyes. Her face was streaked with tears, her curls in disarray. She had waited for her angel all night.

Her angel had been watching Raoul, but how was she to know that?

The flock who had been surrounding Raoul glanced at Christine, startled. Raoul made a quick motion, and they all left.

Christine's angel, who had been hiding in the shadows, watched this casual dismissal of his admirers.

"Is something wrong, Christine?"

"My angel!" she sobbed out. "He isn't there!"

"Isn't where?"

_"In my room."_

"Your room?" he echoed stupidly.

"Yes! That is where he comes to give me my lessons daily."

He stared at her, shocked. Then the words took on a new meaning.

"The man comes to your room everyday?"

Her eyes, her gentle doe eyes, narrowed, though in confusion or annoyance he didn't know. "A man? You think you heard a man?"

"Of course." He felt confused now, and once again stupid.

"It's you, Raoul, who say that? You, an old friend of mine! Of my father! But you have changed since those days. What are you thinking? I am an honest girl, Monsieur Vicomte de Chagny, and I don't lock myself up in my dressing-room with men. If you had opened the door, you would have seen that there was nobody in the room."

"I did open the door, when you were gone, and I found no one in the room."

"So you see!"

"I saw nothing."

"Well…?"

He didn't know what to say. What did he want from her? The truth? All right, he would speak the truth.

"Someone is tricking you, Christine. Your angel is a fraud."

Her eyes widened, and she began to sob. "He is real!" he wailed, with alarming passion. "Have you so soon forgotten my father's stories? You yourself promised to sing to the angel with me. It is you, Raoul, who has tricked me!"

With that she left the room.

"Christine!" Raoul tried to rise. Pain shot through his body, and he collapsed onto the bed.

Then the laughter began.

It was slight at first, just a now-familiar dark chuckle. Then it rose. Soon laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling. There was something musical about the laughter. More noticeably, it was maniacal.

Raoul covered his ears and sank deeper into the covers. It only became louder. It seemed to be less in the room and more inside his mind, flooding his soul, making him want to pull the pillows over his head.

But he was unable to do so. Raoul, who had always been in power, found himself powerless now. Powerless to run, powerless to hide, powerless to breathe, powerless to do anything but lie there as the voice echoed in his ears, laughing and laughing and laughing.

«§Ж§»

These chapters just keep getting bigger and bigger, don't they?  
When my review count hits ten (meaning three more reviews) I'll update. If I get five reviews for this chapter, I'll have Erik and Raoul actually have a real conversation (several paragraphs as opposed to the two or three sentences it will be otherwise.) Once I hit fifteen reviews Erik (I can use his name in author notes, at least) will take Christine down to his lair. I'm not sure about the rest, but the current plan is that "Prima Donna" is at twenty reviews, "All I Ask of You" is twenty-five, and I haven't yet decided when Erik's adoration for Christine will become adoration for Raoul. If people keep reading without reviewing (I have seven reviews and over 120 hits) I may just discontinue it…I have low self-esteem.  
And high school. Can't forget the high school.


	4. A Man Named Erik

Priestess Adularia: I'm so happy I can hardly breathe! Thank you all you wondrous readers! Thank you!

_He's there, the Phantom of the Opera  
Today, Christine goes in the mirror_  
Ah ah ah-ah-ah-ah ah aah  
Ah ah-ah ah ah-ah-ah-aah!

And now, I write!  
Now, I _know_ someone is going to wonder why Raoul doesn't recognize Erik's voice.  
First off, Raoul is naïve. He's told Phantoms don't exist, he believes Phantoms don't exist. Mme Giry or the Persian tells him they can take him to the Phantom, he follows them without stopping to imagine that they might be on his side (Mme Giry, at least, is, I'm not so sure about Nadir)  
The Phantom, in my opinion, should be able to produce a long string of voices. Furthermore, what Raoul in the musical was Erik in a very bad mood.  
Look at it this way:  
The Phantom has a deep, loud, booming voice (both in 'insolent boy' and in 'flattering child')  
Erik has a soft, gentle, sweet voice  
Both voices are utterly beautiful, but Raoul will not make the connection between Christine's mighty 'angel' and his sorrowful friend Erik.  
Well, not _this_ chapter, anyway…

«§Ж§»

_Midnight__, has the moon lost her memory?  
She is shining alone  
Memory, all alone in the moonlight  
And the wind begins to moan _

All night, singing echoed through the house. The sounds were coupled with sobbing. Long, endless wails sounded in Raoul's ears.

His immediate thought was of Christine. Was she crying?

But no. These sounds seemed to come from the wind itself.

And it was a man's voice, singing.

_Here I am, on my own  
Nowhere to turn, nowhere to go to  
Without a home, without a friend  
Without a face to say hello to _

He found himself sobbing, half-hysterical. Raoul stood up, paced, listened to the words. The anguish they spoke of tore him to the bone. There was no hope there, no salvation. His Christine would not have such misery.

And they were so, so beautiful. Soft, magnetic.

_If I had heard this voice,_ Raoul thought. _If I had heard this gentle whisper, singing to Christine, I could not have doubted that there was an angel of music._

_It's so easy to leave me  
All alone with my memory  
But everyday I'm learning  
I was just pretending _

He wondered who it was. Perhaps some famous singer, who worked here?

No wonder Christine had gone from a gawky girl to a seraphic singer. Did everyone here have so enthralling a voice?

Raoul knew there was a new production coming out, _Il Muto_ or whatever.

_I'll have to see just how many angels this opera has._

_If I die  
The world will keep on spinning  
A world full of happiness  
That I have never known  
And I will never know_

«§Ж§»

Raoul woke up the next day to the sound of sobs. Harsh, wracking sobs which wrenched a body asunder.

This time, his thought were not of Christine.

Trying to get out of bed, Raoul instead found his legs tangled in sheets. He fell out of bed and landed on his bruised back with a yelp.

Lying there, breathing deeply, Raoul listened to the wails. They made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He stumbled to a rise, glancing out the window. It was late, he realized. Perhaps past noon.

The weeping hadn't ended. He found himself entranced. It was as if the keening was inside his mind, drawing him towards he who was so miserable.

Half-running, half-staggering, he made his way out the door, across the hall, down a flight of steps, and after that it was a blur. Eventually, he found himself in a dark passageway with the source of the wails: a man dressed in expensive black clothing, hunched over and weeping into his hands.

"Monsieur?"

The man didn't react. His head was turned away from Raoul. His shoulders trembled.

Tentatively, Raoul took a step closer. Another. He reached out and touched the man's quaking shoulder.

The man spun around with astonishing speed, rising with eerie grace. Raoul found himself on the ground again, staring at a face in a mask.

What he could see of the face was lovely: dark wavy hair, thick black eyebrow, creamy white skin, blazing glittering aurous gold eyes full of tears and shock and grief.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

The voice was tear-broken, rough and despairing. But it was captivating. Enticing.

"I…I heard crying." He felt oddly subdued. What was it about this man that made him feel so…inconsequential? He tried to rise. "Were you crying?"

"No, my life is perfect," he sneered, then let out a choked sob and turned away.

Raoul managed to stand and tripped over his own feet. The man caught him, turning his head to look at Raoul. One of his tears fell on Raoul's cheek, and the man recoiled. Raoul managed to stand on his own this time, and was discomfited to find that he was shorter than the stranger.

"What's wrong?"

He blinked, though Raoul couldn't see it. The last and first person to speak to him with such concern was Mme Giry, who at the time was only a girl with kind eyes and a compassionate heart.

Now he turned, facing the Vicomte as an equal.

And began to sob.

"In love…so beautiful…so sweet…so…so…" he managed to get out between gasps. Shutting his eyes, he tried to stop the mad procession of tears running down his visible cheek and sliding under the mask. Raoul watched. Even his wails were enough to mesmerize. "Loves another…just like…just as innocent…just as lovely…"

His voice broke, and distress became rage. "I hate him!" The roar, oddly familiar, even broken by tears, made Raoul jump. "I hate…I hate everything about…_him!"_

All emotion seemed to drain away. His chin dropped to rest in the hollow of his neck. "Too…beautiful…"

"I understand."

He raised his head, incredulous, somewhat scandalized. "You understand, Vicomte?" he repeated. _"You?" _

Raoul blinked. "You know who I am?"

The man snorted, an action that might have been more contemptuous were he not in tears. "Everyone knows you. You're the Vicomte de Chagny. You're beautiful and happy and your life is just perfect."

"The woman I love loves another."

His brow lifted, and Raoul's heart did a strange thing that could only be described as flipping over.

"What…" he breathed, forgetting Christine for a moment. "What's your name?"

Again with the brow and the damn flip. His lip twitched. "And why would you want to know that, Vicomte?"

"My name is Raoul," he replied, stoutly, like a little boy trying to act like a tough man. "What is yours?"

He frowned. Raoul wondered why so simple a question would upset him.

"It's Erik," he replied at last, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" Raoul cried. Erik spun around. _What's the matter with you?_ Raoul wondered. Why had he done that?

"What is it?"

He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to pour his troubles into Erik's ears. But he didn't even know where he lived. "Do you…where…how?"

He was a man. Men were not supposed to feel this way. Raoul swallowed, hard. "Nothing."

«§Ж§»

"Ah, Vicomte!" greeted Firmin. There had been spots of color in his cheeks since Christine's performance, which after all had been just a few days before.

"How are you feeling?" asked Andre. He seemed slightly less exuberant than Firmin. He had always been the worrywart of the pair.

_How am I feeling?_ Raoul wondered bitterly. He felt as if he was going to throw up at any given moment. He felt as if his bones had been replaced with ice. He felt as if his whole body had been crushed by a falling chandelier. He felt as if someone had ripped out his heart, stomped on it, then shoved it back without sewing up the wound.

"I'm feeling very well, Monsieur, thank you."

They both smiled, very polite. "This way, Monsieur," said Andre. Speeding up, he hissed in Firmin's ear, "did we really have to bring him along?"

They had come for the very simple reason that they had sold Box Five. An inspector's report stated as follows:

_I was obliged to call in a municipal guard twice, this evening, to clear Box Five on the grand tier, once at the beginning and once in the middle of the second act. The occupants, who arrived as the curtain rose on the second act, created a regular scandal by their laughter and their ridiculous observations. There were cries of "Hush!" all around them and the whole house was beginning to protest when the box_-_keeper came to fetch me. I entered the box and said what I thought necessary. The people did not seem to me to be in their right mind; and they made stupid remarks. I said that, if the noise was repeated, I should be compelled to clear the box. The moment I left, I heard the laughing again, with fresh protests from the house. I returned with a municipal guard, who turned them out. They protested, still laughing, saying they would not go unless they had their money back. At last, they became quiet and I allowed them to enter the box again. The laughter at once recommenced; and, this time, I had them turned out definitely _

It was Firmin who suggested they simply check Box Five themselves. They had planned to go early that morning, but there had been two notes from the Phantom to deal with. The first complimented the gala, but the second requested the Ghost's salary be paid.

As for Raoul, Madame Giry had told him he was wanted. Neither Firmin nor Andre had told her that he was, but they certainly couldn't be so rude as to tell him.

«§Ж§»

"Angel of music, I'm so sorry  
How was I to know?  
Angel, he still means nothing to me  
I do not love this boy"

The 'Angel' clenched his teeth. He didn't believe her. How could he? The boy was perfect. Those lips, those eyes. Perfect.

Unlike him.

_Can he sing?_

If he could sing, all was lost.

"Angel of music, guide and guardian  
I beg you, don't leave me!  
Angel, stay with me, here beside me  
Sing with me, strange angel"

Strange!

Yes, he was strange, and always would be. He touched his porcelain mask, wondering what Christine would think if she saw her guide and guardian.

The boy, again. Why could he not stop thinking of the boy?

Why had he not killed him?

"Angel, you played your music for me  
Just as you said you would  
Angel, you said you would forgive me  
Angel, sing, I beg you"

He had played for the boy, as well. And Christine had been glad. Christine had chosen him.

_She left him to my mercy; she left him to die in the snow._

And he hadn't killed him.

Worse, he had wrapped her in _his_ cloak and given him _his_ gloves, just to keep him warm.

«§Ж§»

The lights went off. All of them at once.

It was dark. Raoul hated the dark.

A few rays of light fell through some opening or another. But it was a wan, sinister light which made everything seem odd. The chandelier, which was off, looked horribly dangerous. There seemed to be shadows everywhere, following them.

Raoul found himself constantly reaching under his hair to rub the back of his neck, feeling as if he was being watched. The statues—he knew Pandora, Delilah, and Psyche—seemed to be sneering at him. Mocking him.

"And here we are!"

Raoul blinked. It was just a box. Yes, it was a grand tier box, which gave the finest view imaginable, but there was nothing to distinguish it from all the other Grand Tier boxes.

Except a single rose, lying on the seat.

Raoul picked it up and winced. The thorns cut his fingers and made him bleed. He dropped it, and realized there was a ribbon tied around it.

_His_ ribbon.

He licked the viscous fluid, the dark red of the deceptively soft petals. It left an unpleasant coppery tang on his tongue. Another man would have spit it out.


End file.
